Zombies of the Science Fair

  FOR

  SHANE (TIM) MURRAY & JONATHAN (PLESKIT) LASALA

  WITH THANKS, FROM BRUCE AND TONY

  CHAPTER 1 [PLESKIT]

  A LETTER HOME (TRANSLATION)

  FROM: Pleskit Meenom, on the continually puzzling Planet Earth

  TO: Maktel Geebrit, on the too distant and deeply longed for Planet Hevi-Hevi

  Dear Maktel:

  Well, I have caused another uproar here on Earth.

  I suspect that this will come as no surprise to you. I guess I’m not surprised myself. But I can’t understand it. It’s not as if I’m trying to cause trouble. It just seems to follow me around.

  I ask you—who could have guessed that a simple project like trying to enhance Tim’s brainpower could have turned into the kind of catastrophe I’m about to explain to you?

  I’ve written down the series of events. As usual, Tim helped. I am also including some transmissions written by the being who was one of the reasons so much went wrong with my science fair project. These were retrieved by members of the Trading Patrol after the unfortunate events I am about to describe were all over. If we had been able to get them earlier, it might have saved a great deal of trouble.

  There’s even a chapter from Linnsy, for reasons you will understand later.

  I hope your life is calmer and more quiet than mine.

  Are you ever going to come to visit?

  The Fatherly One sends his regards.

  I send this story.

  Fremmix Bleeblom!

  Your pal,

  Pleskit

  CHAPTER 2 [TIM]

  SCIENCE FAIR BLUES

  My head felt as if someone had been hitting it with a sledgehammer. My eyes were burning. My body ached from exhaustion.

  “I can’t do it!” I cried. “I just can’t do it!” My mother sighed. “Can I assume that it’s science fair time again?”

  I nodded numbly. It was no surprise that my mother was able to figure out my symptoms. This happened to me every year when it came time for the science fair. I longed, ached, yearned to produce the greatest science fair project the school (the school? Heck, the world!) had ever seen. I planned and I schemed. I came up with great ideas, projects that would make every kid in the school writhe in envy.

  Then reality would set in. The stuff I needed cost too much money. I couldn’t find the right books. My idea wasn’t realistic anyway. (As my mother is fond of saying, “If they can’t solve cold fusion in a multibillion-dollar lab, what makes you think you can do it in my kitchen?”)

  Most of all, I just didn’t have time to pull it all together.

  My upstairs neighbor, Linnsy, liked to point out that the main reason I didn’t have time to do what I wanted was that I never actually started my project until the night before it was due.

  “I don’t think a real friend would grind that in,” I grumbled.

  “If I wasn’t your friend I wouldn’t take the emotional risk of pointing out your shortcomings,” she replied calmly.

  “What risk?”

  She shrugged. “You might take it badly. You might get angry with me.”

  “Hah!”

  The reason I said “Hah!” is that Linnsy mostly seems to find it amusing when I get mad—which only makes me madder, which only makes her more amused. So it seemed to me the emotional risk was all on my side.

  But back to my mother. “What, exactly, is it that you’re trying to do?” she asked gently, gazing at the jumble of small metal parts scattered across the kitchen table.

  “Robotic squirrel,” I muttered.

  “Oh, Tim,” she sighed. She picked up the remote control for the television, which I had been about to disassemble, and slipped it into her pocket. Obviously, she didn’t trust me to return it in working condition. “Why can’t you choose a reasonable project for once?”

  “Because I’m not a reasonable person!” I cried. “You always tell me I should think big, follow my dreams, believe in myself! Then when I do, you tell me to be reasonable! Ack! Gack! P-tooie!”

  Mom sighed again. “My sister warned me about having children. But did I listen? Nooooo. Like an idiot, I went right ahead and had one anyway.”

  “Ha very ha.”

  She knelt beside my chair. “Okay, Tim. Let’s see what we can do about this. When is the project due?”

  “Thursday.”

  She closed her eyes, and her face looked pained. “Thursday of what week?”

  “This one.”

  She made an obvious effort not to scream. “But that’s only two days away!”

  “I hope you don’t consider that a news flash, Mom.”

  She groaned. “Tim, how could you possibly have waited this long to start? Especially after what happened last year? And the year before, now that I think of it.”

  “Hey, those other times I didn’t start until the night before the project was due. This time I’ve got two whole days. Don’t I get credit for improvement?”

  Ignoring the question, she said, “How did I not know this was happening? How did I not know you were supposed to be getting ready for this?”

  “Been working too hard?” I suggested, hoping to distract her with guilt.

  “Been not getting messages that were sent home from school because unreliable son failed to deliver them?” she countered.

  “They’re around,” I said, but even I knew that sounded lame.

  After that, neither of us said anything for a minute. I could tell she was trying not to get too mad. I was struggling not to do any of several stupid things I felt like doing, including (a) screaming, (b) sweeping the entire miserable mess onto the floor, and (c) bursting into tears. Managing to avoid all those, I did something worse instead. My voice dripping bitterness, I said, “I wish Dad was here.”

  My mother sucked in her breath, and I cursed my fat mouth. “Sorry,” I whispered.

  She shook her head, and I could see that she didn’t trust herself to speak. She stood up, walked to the door, stopped, turned back, turned away, turned back again. “We’ll talk later,” she said, her voice soft. “I’m sorry, Tim.”

  Great. Tim Tompkins, emotional genius, strikes again.

  I stared at the mess on the table for a while. Finally I decided there was only one thing to do.

  I went to my room and sat down at my desk. In front of me was a weird device. Its circular base was about an inch high and maybe eight or nine inches across. Rising from this base was a round screen, about ten inches across and no thicker than a penny. On the base was a single rounded button, purple.

  I pushed the button. The screen began to glow. A pair of small boxes folded out from the base. A metallic tentacle stretched up from each of the boxes.

  “With whom do you wish to be connected?” asked a pleasant voice.

  “Pleskit.”

  “Noted and logged. I will let you know when contact is established.”

  I stared at the screen, which was showing a swirling design. After less than a minute the design flickered and was replaced by the familiar purple face of my best friend, Pleskit Meenom, first alien kid to openly go to school on Earth.

  CHAPTER 3 [PLESKIT]

  SCIENCE FAIR BLUES, PART 2

  Barvgis belched contentedly. “That was splendid, Shhh-foop,” he said, holding up his bowl. “May I have some more?”

  Shhh-foop slid across the floor, her orange tentacles waving delicately. “More yertztikkia for the pleasingly round Barvgis coming quickly,” she sang. Shhh-foop loves feeding people—I suppose that’s why she became a cook to begin with—and I could tell from the trill in her voice that she was happy.

  She turned to my bodyguard, Robert McNally. “And perhaps some more for the handsome Just McN
ally?” she warbled, using the name that she had become convinced he preferred.

  His eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses, McNally shook his head. “No, thanks, Shhh-foop. I’ve had enough.”

  I suspected that what he really meant was he had had all he could handle, and would soon be sneaking off to his room for a little snack of Earthling food—possibly some peanut butter, the strange substance that had caused so much trouble when it turned out to make me wildly romantic.

  “I wish I could have some yertztikkia,” the Grandfatherly One sighed mournfully.

  He couldn’t, of course, because he died years ago and has no way to digest food. All we have left of him is his brain, which the Fatherly One kept so that we can have the benefit of his advice and wisdom.

  (“Not that your Fatherly One ever actually bothers to talk to me,” the Grandfatherly One complains every time I see him.)

  Normally the Grandfatherly One stays in a large vat in his own room. But earlier that afternoon I had shifted him into his portable Brain Transport Device so he could consult with the rest of us while we were at the table.

  It would have been nice to have the advice of the Fatherly One as well, of course. But, as usual, he was off on some important business. I think he was visiting the Queen of England, or someone like that.

  Shhh-foop slid back to the counter to fetch the yertztikkia for Barvgis. She had not asked if I wanted more, probably because she knows I cannot stand the stuff. It looks as if it were scraped from the bottom of a stagnant pond in the northern wampfields. Smells that way, too.

  “So, what’s on your mind, Pleskit?” asked Barvgis, licking some yertztikkia from the corner of his mouth.

  “I am having a terrible time with my project for the science fair,” I said, trying not to let my despair sound in my voice.

  “Isn’t that due on Thursday?” asked a cold, disapproving voice from the doorway. The voice belonged to Ms. Buttsman, who had been assigned by the government of our host country to act as protocol officer for our mission after the disastrous events of our first week on Earth. According to McNally, she knows everything about how to behave properly, and nothing about how to behave pleasantly. Tim calls her “the Butt.” I personally think of her as “the dreaded Ms. Buttsman.”

  “Yes, it is,” I replied.

  She gave me a sharp, cold smile. “Aren’t you a little late starting it?”

  I smiled right back at her. “I’ve already completed three projects, Ms. Buttsman. I’m just not satisfied that any of them is good enough.”

  Ms. Buttsman’s smile faded. “Oh,” she said quietly. She turned and walked away from the room.

  McNally snorted and gave me that strange Earthling gesture called a high five. “Score one for the Plesman,” he said happily. “I do love to see that look on Ms. Buttsman’s face.”

  “I am glad to have been of service, McNally,” I said, quite truthfully. “But it does not solve my current problem.”

  “What are the projects you’ve done already?” asked Barvgis.

  “Well, first I did an analysis of the wave frequencies of Beezle Whompis.” Beezle Whompis is the Fatherly One’s new assistant. I like him a great deal, even though he is an energy creature and has no actual body.

  “Sounds good to me,” said McNally.

  “I thought so, too,” I replied. “Only when I showed it to Ms. Weintraub, she said she thought no one would understand it.”

  “So what did you do next?” asked the Grandfatherly One.

  “A study of the effect of six different Hevi-Hevian fertilizers on various Earth vegetables.”

  “So that’s where that fifty-pound tomato came from!” cried McNally.

  I nodded. “Also the onion the size of my head. Unfortunately, when I showed that project to the Fatherly One, he informed me the plant foods I used are embargoed technology, and I am not allowed to share them with the Earthlings.”

  “Bummer,” said McNally.

  “I agree. Then I had a real brainstorm. I did a photo essay on the mating habits of the Veeblax. However, when I showed that project to Ms. Weintraub, she said it was too controversial and was apt to get the entire science fair closed down.”

  “You’ve been censored!” cried McNally indignantly.

  “Yes, although I do not understand how simple biological facts can be controversial. I considered lodging a formal protest, but the Fatherly One talked me out of it.”

  McNally nodded. “Probably just as well. You weren’t going far with that one.”

  “But all these dead ends leave me with nothing!” I said unhappily. “I have done three complete projects but still have nothing to take to the science fair. I wish—”

  I was interrupted by one of the overhead speakers, which made a belching sound to attract our attention. A mellow voice said, “Pleskit, incoming call on your comm device.”

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Your friend Timothy.”

  “Better take it,” said McNally. “Knowing the Timster, he’s probably got his butt in trouble again.”

  In this McNally was correct. When I entered my room and turned on the comm device, I saw that Tim’s face looked deeply troubled. His voice sounding as desperate as the expression on his face, he said, “Pleskit, I need your help!”

  “What’s wrong?” I cried. “Has some evil being kidnapped your mother? Have you accidentally picked up an alien parasite that is slowly gnawing your innards?”

  Tim stared at me in horror. “Is that possible?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just trying to figure out what could have you so upset.”

  He glanced from side to side, as if embarrassed, then muttered, “I haven’t started my project for the science fair yet.”

  “You mean, you don’t like any of the projects you’ve already finished?” I asked, seeking clarification.

  Tim looked at me in puzzlement. “I mean I don’t have anything. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Bupkis.”

  I stared at him, feeling twice as astonished as he had just looked. “What have you been doing all this time?”

  “Are you my mother or my friend?” he snarled, causing me to back away from the screen in astonishment. I had never heard him speak like that.

  “Your friend,” I said. “I think.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just under a lot of stress right now. I’ve been trying to come up with something brilliant, but all I have is a tableful of scrap parts. I feel like my brain has abandoned me.”

  That was when I had my great idea.

  Given my history with great ideas, I should have krepot geezborkim right then.

  I didn’t.

  Instead, I invited Tim to come over to the embassy.

  Then I farted the small but exuberant fart of glee.

  I had just figured out what I wanted to do for my science project!

  CHAPTER 4 [TIM]

  PLESKIT PROPOSES HIS PROJECT

  I love going to the Hevi-Hevian embassy more than anything. I mean, I spent my entire life wanting to meet an alien. Now I get to visit Earth’s first openly alien building almost any time I want. It’s so cool that sometimes I worry my head will explode if I think about it too much.

  It was early evening and still light, so I rode my bike.

  The embassy—which looks a lot like a huge flying saucer—dangles from this big hook that rises from the top of one of the highest hills in the city. So it’s easy to spot, even from a long way away.

  As usual, the grounds were surrounded by tourists and sightseers. (According to the newspaper, having the aliens headquartered here has done great things for Syracuse’s economy.) Fortunately, I didn’t have to press my way through the crowd. I stopped at the blue dome that sits about a hundred yards away from the embassy. Even though the guard knows me pretty well by now, he still made me press my hand against the wall for secure identification. But he smiled and greeted me by name, which was something new.

  I got into a silvery capsule that scooted
me through an underground transport tube, then up into the embassy. Unfortunately, the first person I ran into was the Butt.

  “Well, well, well,” she said when she saw me. “Here he is, the source of most of Pleskit’s problems. Drop by to create another interplanetary incident, Tim?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said, as politely as I could manage. “I’m here to work on my science project. We’re going to try to find a cure for nastiness.”

  Ms. Buttsman’s eyes flashed and her nostrils flared. But all she said was “I’m sure you’ll find a way to turn it into a catastrophe. Pleskit is waiting for you in his room.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I considered belching the Hevi-Hevian phrase for parting, which Pleskit has been teaching me, but decided against it.

  * * *

  If the embassy is one of my favorite places in the world (and it is), then Pleskit’s room is one of my favorite places in that favorite place—even if it is a little too tidy for my taste. For one thing, his bed is an air mattress. I don’t mean a plastic thing you blow up. This mattress is actually made out of air—“thick” air, specially controlled by a molecular shield. It’s the best thing in the world for bouncing on. Plus, it only exists when Pleskit summons it, which he does by making the right smell come out of the knob that grows out of the top of his head plus farting a command. When he wants to get rid of the mattress, he just farts another command and it vanishes.

  One good thing about this is that the rest of the time he can use the space that would normally be taken up by the bed for doing something else, which makes his room a lot… well, roomier. Of course, you have to clear the space off before you can actually use the mattress again, but that’s not a big problem for Pleskit. He’s so tidy I would have guessed he was an alien even if he weren’t purple, since I never knew an Earth kid that neat. (My mother swears they actually do exist, but I think that’s just a scam she’s trying to pull on me.) Two other cool things about Pleskit’s room:

  1. His toys, which, being from another planet, are always strange and interesting—even if he does keep them all lined up on a shelf.